


Three Days at the 4077th

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Gen, Korean War, Medical, Medical Procedures, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24411064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: Maybe Monday lasted three days all by itself, in the middle of a M*A*S*H unit in Korea in 1951.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Frank Burns & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Kudos: 13





	Three Days at the 4077th

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadesofhades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/gifts).



> Written for Large Straight (tangy, noxious, lazy, bitter, leathery) for Get Your Words Out Yahtzee prompt set #7.

**I. Monday**

"The good news, soldier, is that you're going to make it," said Frank, examining the soldier's chart. Margaret nodded next to him, fussily straightening the blanket. Hawkeye groaned.

"Don't listen to him, Corporal Davidson. He has no bedside manner. It's why, at home in his private practice, all of his patients are forced to sit in uncomfortable plastic chairs."

"Pierce!" said Frank, clearly appalled. Hawkeye just smiled at him, oozing his own brand of charm—or at least, being smarmy enough to irritate Frank, which was one of the only good things about being in Korea.

"You were lucky," Hawkeye said, "your surgery was straightforward, and recovery should be relatively simple as long as there's no infection. However, that said—" he glanced at Frank "—what happened to your feet, Corporal?"

Frank gawped.

"There's nothing wrong with his feet!" he said, voice rising in volume by the time he'd finished speaking. Clearly struggling to modulate his tone, he added, "are you _implying_ something, Pierce?"

"No need to imply anything, Frank. I'll just come right out and say it: you missed something." Ignoring Margaret's snit at his high-handedness, he flipped the blanket back.

The soldier's feet had been uncovered—his boots had to be cut off when he'd arrived at the 4077th—and a bad smell assaulted their noses. Hawkeye pointed.

"He has trench foot, Frank," Hawkeye said. "You missed that."

"I most certainly did not," Frank said, but he was looking distinctly shifty. Hawkeye didn't care if Frank admitted it—especially since it was so unlikely that he would—but he did want to treat the soldier's feet.

"In addition to the trench foot," Hawkeye said, "his feet smell because they were clad in wet socks in the middle of summer. He needs his feet washed." The pungent odor was still wafting into the air, and Frank was obviously inching backwards, trying to escape, but Hawkeye grabbed the sleeve of his white coat and held him in place. "You're his doctor, Frank."

The leathery, wrinkled texture of Corporal Davidson's feet were indicative of his condition, and Frank, an expression of distaste on his face, barked at Klinger,

"Orderly! Clean this man's feet immediately!"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. God forbid Frank do anything distasteful or anything he felt was beneath him. He was always delegating his own duties to people like Klinger and Radar, people he could bully with his rank.

He'd been trying, since Hawkeye and Trapper got to Korea, to pull rank on them because they were only captains, but they just ignored him—and Henry never actually lent any credence to Frank's complaints, so they got away with it.

Klinger began the process of wiping Davidson's feet down, then helped raise them on top of pillows to help warm them.

"Hey, doc, is my orderly wearin' a dress? Cause he's got an awfully hairy chest—hey, uh—"

"I'm a guy, yeah, just doing my best to get my section 8 discharge," Klinger said cheerfully. The soldier looked dubious, but subsided against his stacked pillows.

The tang of unwashed feet lingered in the air, but the soldier was soon sleeping comfortably, and as his feet warmed and adjusted to being in the open air, the leathery appearance began to ease slightly.

"There you go, Frank," Hawkeye said, "he's recovering nicely now."

**II. Tuesday**

"There are noxious odors coming from the latrines, Colonel!" Frank was whining when Hawkeye let himself into Henry's office to steal some of Henry's liquor.

"That's because they're _latrines_ , Frank," Henry said tiredly. "It's expected they'll stink, especially in this heat."

"Oh, noisome latrines, is that all you have to complain about today, Frank?" Hawkeye asked, leaning his hip against the desk and pouring himself a drink.

"New ones should be dug," he said petulantly, and glared at the glass in Hawkeye's hand. "If you don't have anything to do, Captain…"

"Frank, Hawkeye is not going to be digging latrines," Henry said. Hawkeye half-saluted, lazily. He never saluted anyone seriously, but he could do the ironic salute just fine.

"Thank you, Henry," Hawkeye said. "And for the alcohol, too."

"Somebody needs to do something!" Frank cried, even as the doors swung open and Margaret strode in.

"Colonel, the fetid latrines need to be dealt with," she said bracingly. Then she saw Hawkeye and her nose wrinkled. "And the fetid soldiers need showers," she added. She looked Hawkeye up and down, obviously trying not to pinch her nose shut. "When was the last time you _showered_ , Pierce?"

"I just did eighteen hours of surgery, Margaret," he reminded her, because after all, she'd been there, even though she looked as fresh as a daisy. "I haven't gotten the chance yet. And I'm not a soldier. I'm an inmate in an insane asylum."

"See? Speaking of noxious odors, Colonel, Pierce _belongs_ in a latrine pit. He certainly _smells_ like one."

"Frank, you could dig one if you want," Hawkeye suggested with a smile. But Frank sputtered.

"I'm a major! I don't do menial tasks!"

"You don't do _any_ tasks if you can help it, Frank," Hawkeye said, shaking his head. "Anyway, Henry, I better shower before these two knock me unconscious and drag me in there."

He lifted a hand in goodbye, and went out the doors.

**III. Wednesday**

"This medicine tastes like piss, doc," the soldier in bed three complained as Nurse Ginger held the spoon in front of his mouth. He was wearing a mulish expression and clearly trying to avoid the bitter medicine that she was trying to give him.

"You need it to heal," Hawkeye said, plopping down on the next bed over, which was currently empty of any occupants. "Try not to breathe and just swallow it quickly," he advised.

The soldier gave him a dark look, but opened his mouth. He winced and recoiled at the bitter taste of the medicine, but he swallowed it, then he grimaced and grabbed for his belly.

"I-is it supposed to hurt my stomach this bad, doc?" he asked, grunting in pain and clutching at his stomach. "I ain't eaten nothin' in awhile, maybe that's why?"

"I don't think so," Hawkeye said, quickly getting to his feet and leaning over the soldier, palpating his abdomen. "No, this thickness here… this ridge… no. Ginger, get me and X-Ray of his abdomen, all right?"

**IV. Wednesday afternoon**

"Am I gonna be okay, doc?" the soldier with the belly pain—a Private Douglass—asked in alarm as they began to carry him back to the OR.

"I need to open you back up," Hawkeye said as they settled him on a table. The soldier was white around the lips and clearly agitated, but Trapper snapped his gloves on, and Hawkeye shoved his hands into gloves too, and the anesthesiologist put the soldier under.

"Did Frank do this one?" Trap asked as Hawkeye made a neat, careful incision.

"Yep," Hawkeye said, and Ginger, who'd scrubbed up and was gowned and gloved, handed him a retractor. "Ah, and of course."

"Another shortcut?" Trapper asked, peering into his open gut. He sighed. "Frank… that damn idiot."

"Another shortcut, and another fix we have to do," Hawkeye agreed. "Frank is so incompetent. I swear he's worse for our patients than the enemy is."

Trapper began to hum as they worked, punctuated by the occasional order for a surgical tool.

"All right, honey, great job," Trapper said to Ginger at last, as she wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Close 'im up, Hawk."

Hawkeye finished up, and Klinger and another orderly carried the soldier back to post-op.

"It's been a long three days," Hawkeye said, dropping his gown and hat into the laundry hamper.

"Has it been only three days?" Trapper said. "I could have sworn Monday was three days all by itself."

"Meet you in the officer's club, buy you a drink?" Hawkeye said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Maybe just buy me a drink in the Swamp and I'll wash it down with my nap," Trapper said.

Hawkeye gave a tired grin. "Sounds good to me, Trap."

So that's what they did.

END


End file.
